


In Your Favour

by turtlebook



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Effie is a hooker, F/M, Haymitch is Haymitch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 14:56:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4483670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turtlebook/pseuds/turtlebook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>She comes closer, walking right up to him, her red lips upturned in a practised smile, and he realises she's not lost. She's a hooker. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Your Favour

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a weird little AU idea I had. I'm not sure if I'll add more to it or not. I have some ideas, but it also stands alone fairly well. We'll see. Leaving it as work-in-progress for now.

There's a light rain falling when he leaves the house. He wouldn't bother making the walk into town, but he's low on booze, so out into the cold night he goes. He pulls his jacket collar up, hands deep in his pockets, as he follows the water running in the gutter all the way down the hill.

He eats at Greasy Sae's, sitting at the outside counter. It'd be drier inside, but he's not feeling sociable - has not, in fact, been feeling sociable for nigh on a couple of decades now - and with the rain dripping steadily off the overhang and splashing at his ankles, no one comes near him while he finishes off his burger.

It's that same desire for solitude, rather than the worsening weather, that makes his decision for him as he weighs up stopping at the bar for a while. No, just the liquor store, then straight home it is.

There's no one around as he makes his way back along the streets, two heavy bottles of bourbon in brown paper under his arm. The rain is keeping everyone indoors; it's coming down steadily now and he's going to be soaked to the skin by the time he's home.

The pattering on the pavement drowns out the sound of quick footsteps behind him until they're pretty close, and he whirls around, expecting trouble. But it's just a young woman in a short, black coat coming towards him. She draws up short, startled, as he rounds on her, and he figures maybe she mistook him for someone else.

"Oh, hello. I called out back there but you didn't hear me." She comes closer, walking right up to him, her red lips upturned in a practised smile, and he realises she's not lost. She's a hooker. "I don't suppose you'd like some company?"

Her accent is Capitol and her eyes are bright, even surrounded by all that heavy make-up, as she looks up at him from under a mass of long hair. As drenched as the rest of her, it's still a bright, brassy red colour - obviously a wig. And she's shivering, though trying not to.

The drowned rat look isn't all that appealing, honestly, she looks more pathetic than appealing. He wonders what she's even doing out on a night like this. He can't imagine business is booming - but then, that's no doubt why she took the risk of leaving her corner to follow him.

A lonely guy walking home, bottle-shaped paper bag under his arm, is a likely enough customer.

He hesitates just long enough for her to take it as encouragement, and she quickly gets down to business. "It's two hundred for a fuck, one for a blowjob. If you're into anything else, we can negotiate. There's a cash machine back a few blocks if you don't have it on you."

"What, no credit?"

She spreads her hands, which are still jammed deep in her coat pockets. As her coat parts it reveals a short, sparkly skirt and beneath it, fishnet stockings. Her top is red and cut very low, showing the edges of a leopard-print bra. 

"I'm an old fashioned girl," she says, seemingly well aware of the irony.

It's about what he expected, despite the joking. He's not a regular or anything, but the girls around here know him, know he's good for the money, that he's not dangerous or a freak - by their low standards, anyway. He doesn't usually accept the offers tossed his way as he goes to or from the bar late at night, but he doesn't always turn them down, either. There have been a few times when he's been drunk enough for it to seem like a good idea.

He's not drunk now, unfortunately, and he knows it's not a good idea. He's not up for socialising. Although, to be fair, spending time with a prostitute hardly counts.

She's pretty enough, but nothing special. Maybe it's the accent that's caught his attention. He doesn't know her to look at, but working girls tend to come and go and they all kind of blend together anyway, birds of a feather. He's never taken one home before - an alley tends to work for all involved - but the rain seeping through his clothes is cold and if he's going to spend the money it'll have to be somewhere dry. 

He realises he's already talked himself around to it while she stands there trying to keep her teeth from chattering. 

He thumbs over his shoulder. "I live up on the hill."

"I don't mind walking."

She keeps pace with him as he starts off again. He doesn't know how she'll manage the steep path in those stiletto boots, but that's her problem. She's probably just glad for something to do other than stand around in the freezing rain.

They don't talk on the way. He's always breathing heavy by the time he makes it back up the hill to his door. She's younger and fitter than he is, and manages it without breaking a sweat - or an ankle. 

"What's your name?" she asks as he lets her in. She moves past him into the hall, eager to be out of the cold and wet.

"Haymitch."

"Haymitch?" she confirms as she looks around. "Nice place, Haymitch." 

It isn't, it's a run-down old dump, but he knows she's just making small talk. He goes on into the living room, already pulling one of the bottles from the bag. He unscrews the cap and swigs it straight. 

"I'm Effie," she says, trailing him into the room. She gravitates over to the small wood-burning heater in the corner. The fire's mostly burned down, but it's still radiating warmth. 

He watches her as he drinks some more. The other times he's done this, he's had a lot more alcohol in his system, and it's all been over a lot quicker. It's kind of awkward this way, having to talk to her and all, so he tips the bottle up a third time.

"Drink?" he offers, when he realises she's watching him, too.

"Sure." 

While he looks around for a glass without anything sticky staining the bottom, she removes her coat, laying it along with her purse on the nearest chair. The shiny fake leather must have been somewhat waterproof, because underneath she looks a lot drier than he is. He kicks off his shoes as he moves around the room, dumps his jacket on a table. The bottoms of his pant legs are soaked and his long-sleeved undershirt is damp and clinging to him, but the warmth of the booze is spreading through him and he's feeling better already.

Finally managing to pour her a drink, he sets it down on the coffee table and settles on one end of the couch. He takes another drink and lifts his hip to pull his wallet from his back pocket, rifling through it for the right money. He knows, at least, how this part goes.

"So, what are you in the mood for?" she says.

He holds up two fifties and tosses them on the table. If she's disappointed to not get the full two hundred, she doesn't show it, just comes around to sink to her knees in front of him. He's kind of worn out from the walk and the weather and life in general and this, he decides - helped along by the bourbon - was actually an excellent idea of his. He sinks lower on the couch, getting comfortable with his legs spread on either side of her, as she runs her hands up his thighs to his crotch.

He's already stiffening as she opens his pants. It's been too long since he had sex of any kind, and he swallows more bourbon down because otherwise this might be the easiest money she's ever made. A jolt runs through him as her hand covers him, rubbing him through his boxer shorts.

"Now, you just relax," she says, working his shorts and pants down a little to give her better access. 

He shifts his hips to help her, his cock standing at attention by the time she puts her hands back on him. It's easy for her to say; he's tense with anticipation as she runs her fingers up and down his shaft. He'd roll his eyes at himself, already close to blowing his wad because a pretty hooker is touching him - just look at what his miserable life has come to.

But he's too busy waiting for what comes next.

There's a rumble of thunder as she hovers over him. "How ominous," she murmurs with a hint of dry wit, and then she bends her head and licks him from root to tip.

His breath catches. She spreads her lips over the head of his dick, a hand holding it steady while she kisses and licks, teasing him with light touches to start with, her tongue and lips moving all over him, getting him nice and wet. She takes him in her mouth part way, sucking just a little before releasing him again and he almost groans. 

One hand still works him as she looks up. "Do you want me to swallow, or did you have something else in mind?" She tugs her shirt down lower, showing even more of her bra than she already was. Her breasts are practically spilling over the top, not that big but nicely round and more than enough to hold his attention. "You could come on my chest." 

It almost sounds wrong, words like that coming out of her mouth. Her way of talking, Capitol through and through, it's not something you hear much round these parts - but it's not just that. She's different, classier than the rough, street-wise girls he's encountered before.

He'd think she was new to the game, but she clearly knows what she's doing, apparently far more comfortable with her trade than he is. 

"That - that's okay. Nothing fancy, just..."

"Oh, I know just what you mean. I like it that way, too - just good old fashioned sex, no silly embellishments." Her tongue darts out to lap at him again, just once. She continues with her mouth tantalisingly close, but not quite touching: "Just sit back and watch. I'm going to suck you dry and enjoy every minute of it."

He knows she's lying, but he doesn't mind. He actually kind of appreciates her making the effort to seem into it. Everyone's always faking something, especially when it comes to sex, and anyone who believes different is fooling themselves. At least with a whore, there's never any chance of that happening.

She's got him back in her mouth, then. No more chitchat, she takes him all the way in, then slides him out slow, over and over. Her hands slip under his shirt and play at his sides, or run down his legs to his knees and scratch her nails along his inner thighs, as she keeps up the steady rhythm on his cock. 

He watches, mouth open, transfixed by the sight, his cock disappearing into her warm mouth, coming out again glistening wet, her red lips parted for him, sliding over him. She holds back every now and then to tongue at the head some more, teasing the slit and licking at the fluid leaking out before taking him back down her throat.

He resists the urge to grab her head, though she probably wouldn't complain if he did. He keeps one hand clutching the neck of the bottle, and he takes a fortifying drink a couple of times as she works away at him. He lets his other hand play in her hair, the bright red strands spread over his lap still a little damp, but smooth and silky as he runs his fingers through them.

She is pretty, he thinks suddenly. Under the gaudy wig and smudged make-up he can still see the pretty girl underneath. Well, not so much a girl. She's not as young as he thought at first, maybe 30 or so. He fleetingly wonders what her real hair looks like as her cheeks hollow and she sucks and his hips jerk up in reflex.

He breathes out hard. He's getting close. "A little harder, sweetheart." 

She complies straight away, increasing the suction as she draws back, adds a hint of teeth scraping as her head moves up and down, her pace quickening. She moves a hand to his balls, tugging and massaging them. He was already getting close but his hips jerk and he grits his teeth, suddenly a lot closer.

It's all over sooner than he'd like, but he doesn't hold back when it takes him over not a minute later. The tightening of his sack in her hand gives her due warning before he tips his head back and groans loudly. She pulls back, keeping the tip in her mouth and milking his shaft with her hand as he shoots his load and she swallows it down without spilling a drop.

As he slowly manages to pull himself back together enough to get his pants zipped back up, she perches on the coffee table and sips the drink he put there for her.

"Well... thanks," he says, and she smiles at him over the rim of the glass. 

She tips her head back to finish it off, sets the glass down, takes her money, and stands. 

He hears more thunder as she crosses to her purse and it's only now, with the distraction of sex dissipating, he realises how much worse the weather has become. It's starting to storm in earnest, rain coming down heavy and loud. Lightning flickers outside as he looks to the window. 

"Well, it's really pouring out there. I should be going, before it gets any worse." She reaches for her coat and starts to pull it on.

There's a crack of thunder so loud it makes her jump - he might have too, if he weren't still so very relaxed, and nicely drunk now, to boot. He watches with lazy eyes as she slowly slings her purse over her shoulder, chewing her lip apprehensively as she looks at the rain beating the window panes.

Well, shit, he really can't send her out in that. He's not _that_ much of an asshole, and he's slightly gratified to realise it. He's not always so sure. 

He sighs and hauls himself to his feet, bottle still in hand. "Look, the storm'll pass over soon, probably. You can wait it out here, I guess. If you want."

She looks back at him hopefully. "Really? Oh, I shouldn't... I need to get back out there."

He shrugs. "No skin off my nose. Stay or don't. I'm going to bed. I'd say don't steal anything, but there's nothing here worth the trouble. Except my booze." He points at her with the end of his bottle. "Don't steal my fucking booze." Almost as an afterthought, he bends to collect his wallet before heading out of the room.

"I could - why don't I come up with you?" she calls after him. "We could enjoy ourselves a little more. Anything you want."

He pauses. Considers the offer. Almost laughs. "That's flattering, you thinking I'd be up for it again any time soon, but I'm an old drunk, sweetheart." He gestures back at the couch where she so expertly sucked him off. "That's all she wrote."

She holds up her hands. "Just a suggestion. No offence. Thank you, I'll wait here then and see if it dies down in a little while. I won't touch anything."

He rolls his eyes. She's got to be the most polite hooker he's ever met. No matter how much of a pro she is, she's got to be new. New to town, anyway. Maybe in the Capitol, hookers have better manners. It's been a long time since he was there, and he had no need to pay for it in those days.

He leaves her sitting gingerly on the couch, still in her coat, looking down at her hands in her lap. She looks tired, and a lot older than her years, but he's never met a whore who didn't.

\---

He wakes up the way he always does; with daylight sneaking in around the curtains, a headache, and a bad taste in his mouth.

But today there's also a hand in his shorts, curled around his dick, and it surprises him so much he shoots upright, flailing wildly at the intruder, who yelps and crashes off the bed to the floor.

"Jesus, what the hell?" he bellows.

"Ow, fuck," she swears at a much lower volume.

He stares down at her. "You're still here?" 

"Well, obviously." She glares back at him, clutching one of her knees and he realises there's some blood trickling down her leg. "Why is there broken glass on your floor?"

He groans, dragging his hands through his hair and down his face. There's a bleeding, pissed off prostitute in his bedroom. Not how he wanted to start his day. He's still too thrown by the unexpected wake up call to even be properly pissed off himself, even though he should be by rights.

But he's slow all round this morning, only just now realising what she looks like, wincing as she inspects her knee and the new tear in her stocking, with her wig askew and her skirt riding up and barely covering anything. The boots are gone and she's probably lucky she didn't cut her feet, too, walking around in just those tights. Bedroom's probably not the only place he's dropped a glass or something and half-assed picking it up. 

Her toenails are purple and her legs look a mile long and he's still staring as he finally dredges up a response to the situation: "Uh. Bathroom's across the hall."

Muttering to herself she struggles up off the floor and stomps out of the room. He hears the tap running and he gets up and grabs last night's pants from the floor, pulling them on as he goes to the bedroom door.

"The hell are you even still doing here? And what - what was _that?_ "

She comes out dabbing at the small cut on the side of her knee with a wad of toilet paper. There's no gushing blood so he figures it's fine, and quashes the stirring of guilt at having hurt her. She shouldn't have been there in the first place. He keeps a knife in the bedside drawer; she could have gotten worse, startling a guy like that.

"I didn't mean to stay," she says defensively. "I fell asleep, accidentally, and I woke up here and I just, well, I thought you might be up for that second round by now. Since I'm here."

"Jesus. Ask first." 

She was in his bedroom while he was asleep. He supposes she could have just grabbed his wallet and gone. It's sitting in the drawer with the knife. 

"Look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sleep here! You were my only trick all night - that won't even cover... the rent. A girl has to eat, you know." 

She leans back into the bathroom and throws the used paper at the toilet. He can't see if she misses the shot. She leans sulkily against the jamb then, arms crossed over her chest, a mirror, he realises, to his own stance.

 _Rent_ , she said. By that, he assumes she means whatever nightly cut her pimp takes.

It's not his problem. So not his problem.

"Can't expect much action with weather like that."

"You think that matters?" She laughs, an unpleasant sound, and she pushes off and heads for the stairs. "Never mind, I'll be out of your hair in just a minute. Thank you for the couch, it was nice of you."

Damn it, now he feels bad. She didn't even say anything about him shoving her to the floor, making her cut herself. In her line of work, something like that probably doesn't even rate a mention. 

This is exactly why he doesn't socialise. 

Even with prostitutes. The few times he settled for a blowjob in an alley, no one had time to chat, or make him think about any of this stuff. He doesn't even usually get their names. 

_Effie_ floats back to him from the previous evening, and he just knows he's not going to forget it, or any of this crap, in a hurry.

He hears her downstairs moving around and it won't be long till she's got her stuff together and is gone. He just has to wait and listen for the door and he can go back to bed in peace.

But he's awake now.

He makes it downstairs while she's zipping up her second boot, and hovers in the living room doorway till she looks up. She blinks in surprise to see him there, then her eyes turn knowing and she puts on a smile. 

"Change your mind?"

"Can you cook?"

She blinks. "Cook?"

"Breakfast. I'm hungry. Twenty bucks in it, if it's edible."

She eyes him warily, and he rolls his eyes. It can't possibly be the weirdest thing she's ever been asked to do. 

She stands up. "I can make scrambled eggs. Do I get to eat too?"

He shrugs. "Sure, I'm a gentleman."

She snorts and brushes past him into the hallway. He thumbs over his shoulder indicating the kitchen at the back of the house. He watches her for a moment, heels clicking on the bare floorboards, backside swaying in her tight little skirt. She stops in the kitchen doorway.

"Ugh. Make it fifty."

"Why?"

"I can't even see the stove! I'll have to clean some of this disgusting filth before I cook anything."

He comes up behind her. The rest of the house is untidy and cluttered, but the kitchen is kind of a step down even for him, almost at that point where even he can't stand it and forces himself to wash some dishes. He hates washing dishes.

"Forty," he counters.

"No, I'm sorry, this is appalling, it'll take me an hour at least. Fifty. Look at this pigsty - you're getting a bargain."

His eyes narrow at her tone. "Pretty judgemental for a whore. Your place is a damn palace, I guess?"

She just lifts an eyebrow back, and waits. He supposes she's used to holding out for what she's worth. And he's too sober to argue over ten dollars.

"Fine. Better be damn good eggs," he mutters, and makes his way back upstairs to get dressed.

\---

They're not great, it turns out, but they're okay. 

She's already made a start on the cleaning, and has cooked and apparently eaten, too, by the time he comes back down after taking a shower. The stove and most of the surfaces are cleared of trash, and what has to be every plate, cup, and utensil he owns is in a towering heap to one side of the sink, ready to be washed. 

His share of the eggs is cooling on the counter, along with a plate of toast made from what he knows to be pretty stale bread. She's made coffee, too. He didn't even know he had coffee. 

His stomach rumbling, he takes the lot over to the table and digs in. 

She's standing at the sink, lost in the midst of a cleaning frenzy he suspects is not motivated by payment alone. She's one of those fussy neat-freak types, it's written all over her as she washes dirty dish after dirty dish like they offend her with their very existence.

He doesn't understand people like that. He'd usually find it annoying, but it's working in his favour for now - he's always scrounging for something clean enough to eat off of. At least he won't have that problem again for a while.

He watches her while he makes his way through the food, amusement warring with irritation as she tuts and sighs and makes frustrated noises when a dish proves particularly difficult to clean.

"If you're finished eating, you should go and collect any dirty plates you've left lying around the house and bring them to me.

He's still chewing his last bite of toast. He hadn't even realised she'd been paying any attention to him, so absorbed has she been in her task. 

He talks around the food in his mouth, "Can't you do it? I'm the one paying you."

She turns her head and gives him a look. He hasn't seen a look like that since he was a kid trying to get out of some chore or other and his mother wasn't having any of it.

It's creepy. There's a prostitute in his kitchen giving him _looks_ now. He swallows hard and gets up to go do as she says, suddenly regretting the entire situation. Unfortunately he's already eaten and won't be able to get out of paying, or he'd kick her out now.

He returns a few minutes later and dumps an armload next to the sink. It's mostly mugs and glasses. He does have a drinking problem, after all. The point when he just started drinking straight from the bottle was at least two weeks ago.

"There," he says.

"Thank you!" she trills brightly, favouring him with a smile, all trace of the Look gone.

He stands there, leaning back against the counter, and idly wonders if she's someone's mother. She could be; hookers have kids sometimes, don't they? Hazard of the trade. But he's not about to ask.

"You almost done?" he asks instead.

She spreads her hands at the remaining - though now greatly diminished - mess. "As you see." She tuts in dismay again, peering at a cooking pot that he'd used to make - he can't remember, doesn't recognise the caked-on crud coating it.

Soup? Beans? It would be anyone's guess.

"How can anyone live like this?" she mutters, mostly to herself, although he's standing all of three feet from her. Which she clearly knows, as she turns to give him an arch look. " _Such_ a bargain," she repeats her words from earlier, before starting to scrub at the pot.

He crosses his arms over his chest. "Fifty an hour is a pretty decent rate for a maid."

"Ah, but I am not a maid. You're paying for the pleasure of watching me cook and clean. Go ahead and jack off if you feel the urge."

That makes him blink. "So that's the standard rate for... watching?"

"No, as I said, you're getting a bargain. There was a guy I used to see sometimes who paid a lot more than fifty dollars to watch me -" she pauses and looks over at him, eyebrows raised. "Do you really want to know?"

"Now I do, yeah."

"He'd watch me clip my toenails."

He snorts. "Hot stuff."

"Then he'd paint them for me."

Unable to help himself, he looks down at her feet. She's got her boots back on, but he remembers the purple polish.

She turns back to the sink. "I haven't seen him lately."

"Capitol?" he guesses.

"Oh dear, am I that obvious?" she says sarcastically, and he snorts again. "You could dry you know." 

"Huh?"

"Dry. The dishes?"

She doesn't _look_ at him again. He does it anyway.

He'd just leave the lot where she's stacked them, and use them one by one as needed. But he finds a dish towel that has been lying around for who knows how long and half-heartedly dries a few plates and puts them away. He has serious doubts about how clean the towel is. But no one will be eating off the plates but him, so it hardly matters.

They fall into what he comes to realise is a comfortable silence. He's not used to being around people. He avoids them, mostly. 

He's not sure if it makes it easier somehow, that he's paying for her time - takes the pressure off, maybe. Puts him in control. Whatever. He doesn't hate having her here for some reason. Maybe he's just developed a taste for fussy, fastidious whores, that happens to extend beyond how good they are on their knees.

And she is very good on her knees.

He thinks about her mouth, pictures it bobbing on his cock last night. His eyes track over to her lips as they work side by side, pursed a little as she focuses. Most of her make-up wore off overnight and she's paler this morning, less colourful and more real - except for that ever present red wig.

Now, he admits to himself, he wants her. He didn't before, when he first woke up. He didn't like her intruding on his space, only made the offer about breakfast because he felt guilty. And hungry. 

But she's so damn prissy, even like this - in her indecently low top and barely there skirt and up to her elbows in dishwater. The contrast is appealing in some way he's not going to delve into because he's too busy wondering if the offer she made him earlier is still on the table.

He assumes so. He has the cash. Of all his various problems, money isn't one of them. 

Knowing her response in advance makes the whole thing a lot easier. Plus she's just about done with the dishes.

"Okay, I changed my mind. Want to go back upstairs?"

She smirks, setting one last clean plate down and shaking water off her hands. "My, I am a better cook than I thought, aren't I? Or is it the prune-fingers?" She waggles her fingers at him as she steps over to him. She reaches out and dries her hands on the towel he's still holding, lifting her eyes slowly to his. "Just let me get my purse."

She meets him at the bottom of the stairs, and he gestures for her to go first, following close on her heels. She takes her shirt off before they're even halfway up and he almost trips staring at her back, ends of her hair brushing the back of her bra. She must hear the slight stumble because she laughs.

Back in his bedroom she goes over to the window and parts the curtains a few inches, letting in more light. Outside the morning is still grey and overcast, though not raining. 

She eyes the floor carefully, nudging aside some clothes lying around to clear some space, before leaning down to take off her boots. 

"Is your knee all right?" he asks, as he goes to the nightstand and takes out his wallet. He's careful to block her view of the drawer so she doesn't see the knife. No need to freak her out.

"Oh, it's fine, I think. It wasn't deep. You should clean your floors, perhaps. Once in a while."

"Thanks for the tip. That's not included in the bill, right?"

"Common sense is free of charge. Though somehow, still difficult to come by for some of us."

He ignores the sass. The rates she quoted last night are easy enough to recall, and he counts out two hundred plus the fifty he owes for breakfast. She comes over, brushing against him as she pulls a line of condoms from her purse. She leaves them there with the money, in easy reach, then drops the purse and turns to him, taking his shirt by the hem and pulling it off over his head when he lifts his arms up to help.

Both shirtless, he lowers his arms and puts them around her. He's not sure if she'll be up for kissing, but gives it a try as they stand there by the bed, and she doesn't seem to mind. Without her heels she's short, so he has to lean down. She kisses him back. Her mouth opens up to the press of his tongue and she runs her hands down his chest to his pants to undo his button and fly.

She pulls her mouth from his to tell him, "Sit down, please." She pushes his pants and shorts down past his hips, and he sits bare-assed on the side of the bed while she crouches to relieve him of his shoes and strip him the rest of the way.

When she stands again, she unzips her skirt, and in one motion takes down her skirt, tights and underwear all the way to the floor, lifting one foot then the other neatly out of the pile, and straightens, naked but for the long red wig and that leopard-print bra.

He stares. It's been a very long time since he was in the presence of a naked woman.

Not at all shy, she steps closer, and he reaches out to pull her between his knees. The skin of her waist is warm and smooth under his hands and he leans forward, pressing his face against her and just breathing her in. Then he moves his hands; down to cup her ass, up again to cover her breasts. He doesn't trust himself to get her bra off with any efficiency, but luckily she takes the cue and does it for him.

The bra falls away and he pulls her down a bit so he can reach her breasts with his mouth, latching onto a nipple while he fondles the other in his hand. She moves, climbing onto his lap so everything is within easy reach. Wrapping his arms around her, he switches breasts, licking and sucking till both nipples are wet, rosy little peaks.

She puts a hand down between them, stroking his cock and he hardens further, throbbing in her palm.

"How do you want -" she starts to ask, then answers herself: "Wait, let me guess, no embellishments, nothing fancy, just plain, old-fashioned -"

"Exactly." He doesn't lift his head from her chest, mumbling against her skin. "'Cause I'm an old-fashioned kind of guy."

"I like old fashioned."

"Of course you do."

"Well, or we could argue about it if you want. It's your money. Whatever turns you on, baby."

He looks up at that. She's mocking him now. He likes it.

"Why don't you nag me about my housekeeping a little more, then? That's a real turn on."

"Wouldn't be the strangest thing I've ever heard."

"I'll bet."

She gets a condom on him at that point, and the next thing he knows he's stretched out across the bed, flat on his back, as she crawls over him on all fours. He lifts his hands to her body again, running them all over her, taking the chance to touch her while he can. He doubts he'll last long once he's inside her, and then it'll be over.

She stays still, hovering there over him, letting him have his fill of her skin under his hands. She's skinny, not much in the way of curves, although he's not complaining - she still feels damn good, her soft, round breasts, her smooth back and narrow hips, her firm ass and thighs, her tiny waist. While he explores she lowers her head and kisses across his chest, nipping at his nipples, eventually lifting her face to nuzzle under his jaw.

"Are you ready?" she says. She reaches down to run her fingers over his straining erection. He was ready before they even left the kitchen.

"Are you?" 

He returns the favour, pressing his hand between her legs. She's smooth but for a small patch of hair over her mound. He moves his fingers through her folds, finding her a little damp but not wet. He rubs over her clit as she moans and writhes against him.

"Oh yes, I'm more than ready," she says.

Which he takes as a cue to stop wasting her time.

This isn't anything real, he reminds himself as she positions his cock at her entrance and sinks down onto him. She's hot and tight around him, and it's not going to be a problem at all, just being selfish. No, not selfish; selfish would be expecting her to want him back. No one wants him anymore, and that's how he prefers it. That's why he lives like this. That's the whole point.

She starts to ride him. His hands find her hips, following her rolling motions, her cunt clenching and relaxing in a rhythm he never wants to end. His eyes about roll back in his head as it goes on, but he makes himself keep them open and fixed on her, naked and gorgeous, mouth open and starting to pant a little as she keeps up her steady pace, a moan escaping her every now and then.

The thing is, if it's all about what he wants, well he knows what that is, so he just says it: "Wish I could see you come. For real, I mean. Don't fake it, though, you don't have to do that." 

She stills at his words, biting her lip unconsciously as she looks at him almost warily. After a moment her expression clears and she nods. "All right, you'll have to give me a minute."

"What do you..."

"Don't talk, please, I need to focus."

He understands as she starts to fuck herself on him. It's different than what she was doing before with those expert, sensual motions; now her hips move to her own rhythm. She shifts around until she finds the right angle, and rocks against him in short, firm movements. She sucks two fingers in her mouth and then lowers them to circle her clit. Her eyes are closed tight, one hand braced behind her on his leg.

She fucks herself, and it's one of the hottest things he's ever seen. He barely breathes, watching her. _Listening_ to her - because the sounds escaping her now aren't the breathy moans of before, they're these quiet, nasal little whimpers. He moves his hands from where they're grasping her thighs and holds them in tight fists up by his head as he restrains the urge to join in - to throw her down and fuck her brains out - to _move_.

He can only be part of this as a passive observer, he understands that, seeing her face screwed up in silent concentration. She's somewhere else in her head. Somewhere nice, he hopes.

It goes on for a few minutes, testing every ounce of his self-control, and then her movements speed up, a shuddering gasp escapes her, and her eyes fly open and land on him. Her hips grind onto his, cunt pulsing around his cock, and it's done.

He's done, too.

"Jesus, fuck," he swears, grabbing for her again, heels digging into the bed as he thrusts up into her and comes hard and fast.

He groans as he goes limp, the energy flowing out of him, leaving him heavy and sleepy and warm all over. She lies - or falls - forward to rest on his chest, the top of her head under his chin. He strokes her back a little until she moves again, only a few seconds later.

She pushes herself back up. Holding the condom carefully at the base of his dick, she lifts off him, then strips the condom off and ties it expertly. Then she's up and moving, naked, out the door. He hears her go into the bathroom.

Well, that's it, then.

\---

He must have dozed off, though not for long, because he wakes to the sound of a quiet voice speaking nearby.

"Eyes bright, chins up, smiles on. Eye bright, chins up..." 

It's barely more than a murmur, one he's not sure he's hearing right. She's talking to herself, already dressed again as she sits on the edge of the bed, carefully smoothing down her hair and fixing her shirt.

"What?" 

She looks round, startled. "Oh, nothing. Nothing at all." She finds her purse on the floor and reaches over for the cash on the nightstand, adding it to the hundred he gave her last night, counting the total before tucking it away. She's done all right off of him, in the end, and possibly that factors into what she says next. "Do you get into town much? You should come see me sometime."

"Uh, no, not that much."

She turns round, bringing a knee up on the bed. He's still lying splayed out, still naked. He wants to pull the sheet over himself out of some weird, sudden surge of modesty. 

"Or I could come back here," she offers. "We could make a date for next week, the same night?"

"A date?"

She shrugs. "I'm always happy to take on a new regular. And this was fun, wasn't it?"

He pushes himself upright and tugs a corner of the sheet over his lap. "Listen, no offence, but... I mean, it was... great..." Why does he feel like he's breaking up with someone after a lousy first date? That wasn't the kind of date she was talking about. He knows that. And not that it was lousy, either, he just - he doesn't socialise. Even with hookers.

"Don't worry about it," she says easily, getting to her feet. She doesn't seem at all disappointed to be turned down, and for some reason it bugs him. 

He must meet the criteria - paid in full, not too much of an asshole, no weird kinks - as far as hookers go, he's a catch. 

Or maybe she just saw how obviously, painfully single he is - no woman would ever set foot in that kitchen of his if he didn't pay them. She figured he was lonely and threw him a bone.

"Well, I'll be going." She gives him a bright smile and a little wave and he finds himself returning the gesture with a brief lift of his hand before reminding himself she smiles at a dozen guys a week like that and he doesn't need to be polite to her.

But then she stops in the doorway, hesitation clear in the line of her shoulders, like she's got something more she wants to say. 

"I recognise you, you know," she says finally, and the air leaves his lungs in a rush. She looks back over her shoulder at him almost sheepishly. "Haymitch Abernathy, it's you, isn't it? You're famous."

His reply comes out harsh. "Used to be. That was a long time ago."

She shrugs and looks back out to the hall. "I used to want to be famous, once," she says.

Then she's gone, and he listens to her footsteps on the stairs, followed by the front door opening and closing.

He shuts his eyes and flops back down onto the mattress.

He should have known. She's from the Capitol, and she isn't that young. Of course there's a chance she'd remember him - who he used to be, anyway. The sad wreck of a man he's turned into over the years bears little resemblance to that kid, but he knows he'll never truly escape that part of his past, much as he tries.

"Ah, damn it," he says into the silence.

What does it matter if some washed out Capitol whore recognised him - when, during the blow job? When he paid her to make eggs? When he first told her his name? It doesn't matter, and it's over now, anyway.

And so what if the last twelve hours have been the least dull he's spent in a while? It's the most human contact he's had since he doesn't remember when. That's the only reason the house suddenly feels so empty, he tells himself. He really just needs to get out more.

Or not. She did offer to come back. That would have been convenient.

Damn it, he thinks, as he slings an arm over his face in a vain attempt to shut out the world and everything in it. He should have said yes.


End file.
